


(The Song Of) Patroclus

by murmuresdevanille



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 17:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18145118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murmuresdevanille/pseuds/murmuresdevanille
Summary: ‘Let the gods keep Heracles and Orion and the heroes of yore. I have mapped and traveled and traced the constellations across Patroclus’s skin, watched his eyes twinkle with mirth, brighter than even the biggest stars.’Inspired by Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles: an ode to Patroclus, as seen from Achilles’s eyes.





	(The Song Of) Patroclus

They will say I am the greatest hero of our generation. They will sing my praises for centuries to come: Achilles, who was immortal except where his mother held him by his heel when she dipped him in the River Styx. Achilles, who hid, disguised among women, to avoid going to war. Achilles, who slew Hector, and in his grief, dragged his body around the city of Troy for seven days before he would listen to reason.

They will not say the reason his disrespect for the dead was heartbreak, that I grieved you.

They will not mention you at all, Patroclus, unless, perhaps, to say you were my companion.

Patroclus was Achilles’s companion, they will say, a mere afterthought.

But you are no afterthought, Patroclus. No bard will sing your praises, no future heroes will want to emulate you, and no constellations will be put in the sky in your image. They know not who Patroclus is.

Patroclus is the blue color of the sky. The brightest blue that sears into my eyes at midday, and I turn my head, and there you are. Patroclus is the soft tickle of the grass upon my cheek as I lie by the river, lazily watching the clouds. Patroclus is the shape in each cloud if I squint - there is the crook of his elbow, and - yes, there! - the way his shoulder and his neck form a curve when he watches the proceedings of the great generals intently. His eyes shine with the brightness of the sky, and he does not know I watch him in awe.

How else could anyone view him, after all? He is the vast expanse of the night sky, calming and wondrous, and bewitching. I crane my neck up to look, and there is Orion’s belt, and over there, Heracles, and there Andromeda. I recognize these constellations, remnants of heroes and stories of a bygone era, but I do not see them. I see instead Patroclus’s outline against the sky, the blackness of his hair, the few sparse freckles across his skin, nearly invisible in the moonlight. Let the gods keep Heracles and Orion and the heroes of yore. I have mapped and traveled and traced the constellations across Patroclus’s skin, watched his eyes twinkle with mirth, brighter than even the biggest stars.

Even the night sky where the gods put their favorite heroes to watch over us could not compare to Patroclus’s presence. He is the night itself, the sound of waves crashing against the distant shore, almost inaudible until one listens closely. The sultry stickiness of summer nights, the cool breeze that blows in from the window, the sweet dreams that leave me weeping with contentment, though I can barely remember them when I wake up. He is the sleep that comes with the nighttime, his gentle breathing by my side the rhythm carrying me until I finally drift away.

And he is the morning, too, the first rays of sunshine to greet me, the inertia of the night still clinging to my body, wrapping its arms around me and whispering temptations to simply stay in bed. He is still asleep.  _Patroclus_ , I whisper, but he does not stir, and all traces of sleep have vanished. I do not dare to close my eyes again because what if I do and he is gone when I reopen them?

But he is always there. Patroclus is synonymous with footsteps in the marketplace, following me. I never have to look back because I know he is there behind me, sometimes beside me, but always, always, he is there. He is the din of the agora, the dining hall, the war camp. I see him, hear him, there, in the confusion of large crowds, everyone pushing and shoving and pulling and calling. He tosses me a jagged knife, and everyone watches in horror as it grazes me, but does not break skin, and his face grows concerned.  _Sorry, Achilles_ , he says, and it is the only sound that matters in the entire crowd. He is my laugh as I tell him,  _throw me another_. And he does, trusting me even though skepticism and guilt show blatant on his face.

And when we leave the crowds and their confusion, Patroclus is the peace beneath my favorite olive tree on the mountain. He is the sunrise coming up above the forest, the tops of the trees below black against the soft, blushing pink at the very edge of the gray sky where the earth and heavens meet.  _It’s so early, Achilles_ , he says, mumbling, as he rests his head on my shoulder, his eyes already closed once more as we sit on the dusty ground beneath the olive tree. His cheek is warm on my shoulder. I cannot watch the sunrise any longer, for how could Aurora compare to the pink in Patroclus’s cheeks, stark against dark skin? How can Helios, pulling his chariot high across the sky, measure up to my Patroclus as he lies below the olive tree, watching me climb higher and higher?  _What’s the view like up there?_  he asks me.

I glance down at him, through silver branches and gray green leaves. He smiles lazily when I catch his eye, his hands tucked beneath his black curls. The sunlight is filtered through the leaves above me, and his bronze skin is speckled in golden light and dark shadows.

 _It is beautiful_ , I tell him.  _I wish you could see the world as I do_.

 _Perhaps another day_ , he says, too comfortable in his position to climb up to where I am. It is a hot day, after all, but it is cool in the shade of the tree. He does not understand my meaning.

 _Patroclus_.

That is what they say when a soldier asks about the urn I keep. They never ask me.  _Whose ashes are inside?_ they ask, and someone else replies,  _Patroclus_. Is that all you are now? Will they give you no glory but as my companion? Surely, these ashes are not all you are.

Patroclus is the sun, the most important thing in the world. I see him now, Patroclus, the sun. Apollo watches me. I see him, at Paris’s side, whispering in his ear. Paris holds a bow. Patroclus is that bow, slender and strong, and beautiful and the answer to all my prayers. Patroclus is Apollo’s sad smile as he looks in my eyes. He is there when Apollo says  _go_ , but whether he speaks to me or to Paris, I do not know. Patroclus is the arrow that finally pierces my heel, my one vulnerability, ready to take me to the underworld.

Is this how you felt, Patroclus? The world growing darker, the warmth slowly fading? It is so familiar I wonder whether I have been dying since the moment you died.

I cannot sing your praises any longer, Patroclus. I must go to where the living cannot hear me sing, to where there is light. To you.

I’m coming, Patroclus.

Wait for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the 'Wait for me' line is a reference to Hadestown :^)! Come hang out with me on my writeblr: @incandescent-eden !

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] (The Song Of) Patroclus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981751) by [DuendeVerde4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuendeVerde4/pseuds/DuendeVerde4)




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